


Bruises - A Grimmons Songfic

by whatthefuckisasweep



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Happy Ending, M/M, Missing Scenes, Pining, Season 15, Songfic, There is a kiss, a little bittersweet, a lot of pining, bruises by lewis capaldi just makes me think of season 15 ok, in denial simmons, insane grif, they love each other very much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23146099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefuckisasweep/pseuds/whatthefuckisasweep
Summary: What happens if you separate Grif and Simmons?---Missing Grimmons scenes/thoughts from Season 15 that deal with hurt, angst, coming to terms with aforementioned hurt and angst, and the rescue performed by Grif to the tune - no, uh, lyrics! - of Bruises by Lewis Capaldi.
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	Bruises - A Grimmons Songfic

**Author's Note:**

> I recently rewatched Season 15 of Red vs. Blue and I just had a lot of feelings. I've also been on a Lewis Capaldi kick. Since school shut down and I have nothing to do, I decided to write this to satisfy my own needs. If Roosterteeth won't give me what I want, then I'll have to give it to myself, dammit. 
> 
> Anyways, warning: Some fat-shaming later down because of the Grif volleyballs. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

_Counting days, counting days_

_Since my love up and got lost on me_

_And every breath that I've been takin'_

_Since you left feels like a waste on me_

“...Can we _please_ switch the radio station.” Simmons begs from his uncomfortable seat. The one next to him is empty, and it makes him feel all sorts of things he doesn’t want to feel right now. 

_I've been holding on to hope_

_That you'll come back when you can find some peace_

“No way!” Donut exclaims through his helmet, raising up his hands in avid defense. “This is my ‘in case red team splits up’ playlist! Lewis Capaldi writes the greatest heartbreak songs! It’s like he just tears a new hole in me each time I listen to him. It’s cathartic!”

Simmons has no energy to be incredulous that Donut has such a playlist. “I _don’t_ care. Just change it.” 

In response, Donut stares at him from behind his visor silently. Simmons wants to rip off both his arms and shove them down his throat. What was he looking at? What was he making that face for? Simmons knew the one. They’ve known each other long enough.

_'Cause every word that I've heard spoken_

_Since you left feels like a hollow street_

“What.” Simmons grits out eventually, breaking the silence.

“If this is about-”

“It’s _not_.” He assures. “It’s not about him.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Donut tilts his head in sympathy. “I can change it if-”

“You know what? It’s fine.” Simmons spits bitterly. “Don’t change it. It’s- It’s whatever. It’s a good song. I like it! Love it, even.”

  
“Simmons, I know you’re taking this extra hard. It snuck up from behind and hit you deep, but it’s not gonna take long before this is all-”

“Over. This conversation is _over_ , Donut.” Simmons turns away from his annoying colleague and looks up at the ceiling of the roaring Pelican. Could this ride last longer?

_I've been told, I've been told to get you off my mind_

When the ship finally lands on Scary Planet, Simmons can’t get the damn song out of his head and everyone keeps mentioning things that remind him of Grif. He suspects they are all doing it just to be assholes to him. After all, everyone did always tease him and Grif about their whole system. Or, he guesses, _not_ system. Since Grif didn’t - no, _doesn’t_ \- like him. He never liked him, apparently. As Simmons searches the maybe snake-infested city, his mind begins to wander back in time. It’s only to distract from his increasing fear, he presumes. A coping mechanism of sorts. 

_But I hope I never lose the bruises that you left behind_

Back in Basic, Grif had declared their coincidental meeting the start of a “singularly beneficial relationship”. _Was that_ , he wonders after rounding a particularly daunting corner, _true_ ? After all the times that he had saved Grif’s fatass from danger, from death, from worse - _was that true_? His footsteps crunch against the grass like broken glass. What did Simmons gain from being friends with him? Why could he not think of something else - anything else - right now? 

_Oh my lord, oh my lord, I need you by my side_

Suddenly he’s thrown back into memories that he’s stockpiled over the years. He thinks about Vegas, about taking Grif hostage in Blood Gulch, about parking in the shade for too long, about Rat’s Nest, about the Meta, about Chorus, about the Tower, about their long conversations, about the grating but somehow soothing sound of snores in the room next over, about checking the pantry for leftover clues to Grif’s whereabouts, about falling for his tricks, about their system (or not system, he’s not sure) of not talking about anything after it happened… He’s thinking about Grif. He’s thinking about how he was practically _always_ there. How they’ve both grown. How he’s fucking proud of the both of them. How they’ve known each other for so long, it’s almost unbearable being separated.

Simmons shakes his head. No, no. What is he thinking?

It’s all so stupid and futile. 

They were, and always will be, completely different. Polar opposites. Never meant to work out, really. Ever since the day they met, they had been arguing nonstop. Nothing could change the fact that they couldn’t like each other or get along. Grif was a slob. Simmons was a neat freak. Grif didn’t care! Simmons had an immense amount of care! Grif was lazy! Simmons was a busy bee! It was clear to everyone that they were unable to coexist peacefully. 

Suddenly, a goofy voice brings him back to the present. “Simmons! Hello! Are you in there? Stop thinking about Grif! The Church dish is right there!”

He snaps back to reality. Something tall and grey stands in front of him, and he was about a Donut entendre close to bumping right into it.

“Fuck. Thanks, Caboose.” He looks at Caboose, then back at the relay tower. He opens his mouth to alert Dylan, but then he freezes in place. The rest of Caboose’s words finally register. “And _**I wasn’t thinking about him** _!” 

_There must be something in the water_

_'Cause everyday it's getting colder_

Temple’s underwater secret base is pretty interesting, Simmons thinks. Simmons looks up and down the metal hallways which give off a bone-chilling glow as he heads off for dinner. Grif would be stoked about that right about now. He’d also be pointing out all the cool places that he could nap. But not before he’d ask about how many bats could -- Dammit, Simmons! Stop thinking about it! Think about something else! 

Hmmm…

Ah, right!

His latest new thought to obsess over: Gene, and how goddamn annoying he is! Tucker says that they’re so alike, but he can’t see it. Sure, their armor color is the same, but that’s where the similarities stop. Gene’s voice is so gross and nerdy, his jokes are so cringeworthy, and his mannerisms are far more than abhorrent. There was no way that Simmons could act like _that_ \- all high and mighty, squeaky, so lame. Right? I mean, he reasons, they share the same interest and hobbies. They share similar ideas: a hatred for laziness and apathy, a perfectionist attitude. But does he really act like Gene? He knows he doesn’t fundamentally but he can’t pinpoint why, and it’s bugging him.

_And if only I could hold ya_

_You'd keep my head from going under_

Simmons spends dinner poking at his fish while the others catch up with each other. Temple and the Blues craft some sort of plan. Sarge and Surge are talking about weaponry. Donut and Cronut are having the time of their lives screaming about something stupid. Lopez and Lorenzo are lamenting unintelligibly. Everything feels right except one little teensy weensy tiny little thing, and it’s really eating at him from the inside. Apparently Caboose notices his lack of appetite because he nudges Simmons with his elbow lightly. 

“Psst.”

“What is it, Caboose?” Simmons grunts, his eyes trained on his untouched food.

“Grif will come back. When Church left, I didn’t feel like eating too, but I did because I knew Church would want me to! So you should.”

Simmons, once again, wants to shoot everyone in the room. He turns pink under his helmet. “Shut _up_. Why do you think all I ever think about is Grif? I’m an independent cyborg! I can live without him weighing me, and everyone else on the team, down. Figuratively and literally.” 

“It’s because it’s fucking true,” Tucker interjects. “You sound exactly like a housewife coping with a painful divorce, and you know it.” 

“Do not!” He looks around at everyone, who’s now looking at him. “Do not sound like a housewife- not the know it part- I do- I- well, I don’t _know_ it because it isn’t _fucking_ true!” 

“Okay, okay. Jeez. Don’t get your panties in a twist!” 

“Simmons has panties?” Donut calls out from across the table. “I miiiiight need to borrow those later.”

“Missing a particular orange good-for-nothin’ isn’t going to help us with this war. We gotta focus on the present, which is killin’ them UNSC enemies.” Sarge adds. “Keep your head in the game, soldier!”

Simmons puts his head in his hands instead. 

Eventually, everyone leaves except him and Gene.

“Wanna organize the spreadsheets in the lab alphabetically?” Gene asks. “It helps me feel better when I’m down.”

Simmons gets up and spins to the direction that Sarge, Donut, and Lopez are headed. He thinks for a moment. Not because he is considering it, but because he’s deciding on what to say. 

“No, thanks.” He replies carefully. “I’d rather just take a nap.”

_Maybe I, maybe I'm just being blinded_

_By the brighter side_

Simmons finally comes to terms with it when he’s doing his laundry on the thirteenth day at Temple’s base. He really, _really_ , **_really_ ** misses Dexter Grif with his whole ass heart. He can’t even bring himself to deny it anymore, because it’s getting a bit painful. At first, he hated him. He hated Grif for leaving him, hated anyone for mentioning him. But after day five, he realized his hatred was futile. No matter what, it couldn’t bring Grif back. He’d still miss the way that he’d start idiotic arguments to distract Simmons from something shitty happening. He’d miss his stupid methshroom rants. Hell, he’d even miss the way that Grif didn’t do the bed and forgot the ammo. It was all such a sudden change to be torn from him, especially having Grif be such a constant in his life for so long. 

Simmons folds his laundry a little too quickly now. He doesn’t like it. It makes his hands feel all jittery and like they are made of Jell-O at the same time. He’s on his sixth shirt when he makes a little defeated whine as he puts down the neat laundry, making sure there is no one around to witness his pathetic angst. Grif would comment about his laundry methods, wouldn’t he? He would also tell him to _suck it up_ , _Simmons_ and then probably accidentally spill a soda all over his bed. 

….Simmons really misses Grif, doesn’t he? 

They may be opposites in every way, but goddamn, if he hears Gene agree to everything Surge says without question one more time; if he hears him utter another fucking nasal ‘yes, sir!’ again; if he sees him geeking about spreadsheets without being called out for being an absolute nerd; and _if Tucker mixes them up again_? He’s going to go punch a mirror and probably cry for a few hours in the bathroom. He’ll blame it on a malfunctioning fax posterior.

_Of what we had because it's over_

_Well there must be something in the tide_

Simmons doesn’t really want to talk about it. But he also really does because, like most people, he finds comfort in saying something aloud. It just helps him sort his thoughts out a little more. And since Lopez can’t regurgitate information… Well, he finds his own therapist. One day, when no one is around, Simmons pretends to dust the couches. 

“Hey, Lopez.” He tries cautiously. “Do you think Grif misses me?”

Lopez sighs. “No lo sé. Vete a la mierda.”

“Yeah, I guess he doesn’t if he hasn’t tried to contact me in this long.”

“A quien le importa. Ustedes idiotas no entienden el amor.”

“But. But I can’t stop thinking about it, y’know? Grif is my friend. Or at least I thought he was. After all we’ve been through, after all we’ve done together, you’d think he’d at least grow a little fond of me, right? But he said… Well, he said he hated _all_ of us. I mean, Sarge, Donut, Tucker, I could understand. Hell, even Caboose. But. Me? I thought we had a system!”

Lopez just stares at him. 

“Yeah! We _are_ just friends!” Simmons sputters out desperately. “Why are you being so weird about this?! We’re not- It’s not like that!” 

Lopez turns away from Simmons. He’s honestly just tuning out everything that comes out of Simmons’ mouth now. 

“Sure, there were times where I- we-” Simmons continues hastily, face turning a shade of pink. Visions of the Temple of Procreation flash in his mind, taunting him. It was hot, dark, and cramped, but it didn’t feel gross. Grif told him no one would know because they could blame it all on the Temple, he told him it would be alright. Then the next day happened, and, like every other intimate moment they shared, it was never talked about ever again. He’s guessing it never will be, judging by how things are playing out. “Things happen. Whatever. It’s- we have a system. Or not system. Something along those lines. I’m not sure about it. The system I mean! Not the, not the friend thing.”

Lopez is already starting to walk away.

“So we’re just friends,” Simmons says to himself. “Best friends? Ex-best friends?” 

“Usted está desesperado.” 

“Ex-best friends.” Simmons settles, but Lopez is already gone. “Yeah. Ex-best friends.”

_I've been told, I've been told to get you off my mind_

_But I hope I never lose the bruises that you left behind_

_Oh my lord, oh my lord, I need you by my side_

Meanwhile, Grif is alone. He is so, so, so, so, very alone. The first few hours were nice, he supposes. He sat there in complete glorious silence, and god it felt so fucking good to be alone for once. But after a day and a half? Yeah, the regret started to set in. Was… Was everyone okay? I mean, it was a dangerous mission after all. He remembers Charon, Malcolm Hargrove, The fuckin’ Director. Those were big fish to fry. Sitting in those caves alone, being locked away with his thoughts, he started to wonder. What if they never came back? What would happen then? What if his last words to all of them came in the form of an impulsive angry rant? What if- God fucking dammit! Who cares! What matters is that he’s alone, and safe, and-

He wonders if Simmons is thinking about him. He knows he took it the hardest, and, well, after some reflecting, he _could_ have phrased his speech a little better. But he still means it. He still wants to stay. Church is a lost cause at this point, and anyone who doesn’t agree with him is just delusional. Right? 

Grif puts the last trash bag he’s carrying away, panting. He had cleaned the whole base because he was bored and felt like he needed some structure. Or something. He can’t believe he actually did it himself, but here was the proof! If he didn’t know any better, he’d feel like he was losing his mind. But, hey! When Simmons comes back, he can brag all about it. He wonders if the fuckin’ nerd will start crying again like he did on Chorus when Grif did something right. Yeah, haha. Oh man, that was funny. 

But maybe Simmons and the others wouldn’t be coming back. 

Grif swears he can hear Simmons’ stupid little voice all of a sudden.

“You abandoned me, you disgusting piece of lard,” It says. “You quit me. Why the fuck would I come back to you?”

Grif shakes his head stubbornly (he _needed_ this getaway, dammit!), but his voice wavers a little. He almost doesn’t realize he’s talking out loud to nothing but the four now pristine walls in the base. “No, Simmons. You - all of you - made me quit. We both know very fucking well that I can’t stand you.”

“But the Temple-”

“That was- it was one night. We were _kind of_ hammered if you don’t remember.”

“Kind of? You _know_ that isn’t true. Can you count? We were only two drinks in.” 

“Can we not talk about this? You know, change the subject. How’s the trip?”

“Dangerous. And Grif, if I die? Know that I’m going to haunt your lonely fucking face forever. You’ll never be able to sleep soundly again. Maybe you’ll lose some pounds that way, fatass.”

Somehow, that actually stings. He looks down at the ground. “I’m kind of not in the mood to argue right now, buddy.” 

“Neither am I!” Says Fake Brain Sarge out of nowhere. “I’m in the mood for bullets! And shooting you!”

“Oh, great,” Grif mutters. “Now you’re here too.”

_There must be something in the water_

_'Cause everyday it's getting colder_

On day thirteen, Grif gets an idea. He’s tired of making messes in the base just to clean them up again because Fake Brain Simmons is telling him to. Or maybe it’s real Simmons? He can’t really tell anymore. Either way, Grif gets an idea. He finds some volleyballs in the back storage room. They look kind of like heads, right? Venturing around some more, he also finds some crayons in Caboose’s room. He gathers them both, and, with an air of triumph, sets the supplies down at the gathering table.

“Men,” He says to no one in particular, glancing around. “Today, I’m gonna give you a physical form. Or, like, a body? Is there another word for that that makes more sense? It’s more like only a head, really.”

“Physical? Head?” Grif switches to a high girly voice. “Count me in!” 

“Shut up, Donut.” He sighs. “It’s not that kind of physical. I mean I’m gonna make it so that I can see you again. Think about it like possessing a ball! A ball, ball, ball... ”

“Balls?”

“This is a dumb idea, fatso. You should know that scientifically speaking, this isn’t realistically possible! How can we exist without you seeing us?”

“Okay, yeah, okay. But possible is fucking subjective, buddy. Pal. Friend. Agh! Buddy!”

“I’d never thought I’d say this, but Grif’s right!” He says gruffly. “We need a form if we wanna fight! Or take his guts out! Or shoot him for forgetting the ammo again!”

“Okay!” Grif says, exasperated. “Will you all shut up?!” 

His voice echoes throughout the empty halls, and he feels something in him snap. He grabs the first volleyball and picks up the maroon crayon.

“How come Simmons gets to be first? Is it because you miss him?” Says Tucker.

“Shut up ya fucking Blue, and also I do _not_. What is missing anyway? Missing. Miss-ing. That’s a weird word, huh?” 

“Yes, you do,” Simmons says. “In fact, you’re thinking about when-”

“Ashushushush!” He puts a finger up to the volleyball. “Simmons. We never talk about that. It’s our system, remember?”

“Fuck the system and your shitty divorce problems! I am also really horny right now!” Says Tucker. “Me next!”

“Me before! Apple, orange, peach, tissues!” Caboose says.

“No! I order you to make me next, or I’m blowing up the food storage and declaring war on all pathetic imbeciles who wear orange!”

“Not the food storage, sir!! Anything but that!” Grif exclaims, even though he hasn’t been feeling hungry recently. He just needs to know his place because it makes him feel better about this whole situation. His hand moves faster, and suddenly Simmons is staring right up at him. It reminds him of when he decided to leave.

His heart drops a little.

_And if only I could hold you_

_You'd keep my head from going under_

Grif wants to talk about it. He wants to say something about his feelings for once in his life, but everyone won’t give him a break. Sarge and Caboose have been at each other’s necks, Tucker is begging for an air pump to fix Church, and Simmons has been weirdly angry with him. I mean, he has the right to be. Grif just left him out of nowhere. So with them out of the equation, he supposes he’s got to settle for someone at some point… 

He goes with whoever’s left. 

“Lopez, I’m tired! Tired as a wired bired mired… Tired! But I don’t want to sleep! So I’ve had a lot of time to think. Buckets of time. Oodles of time.” 

Lopez stares at him with his volleyball eyes. “Eres estúpido. Cállate.”

“And I’ve been wondering… wondering, wondering, wondering… Do you think everyone misses me? Do you think Simmons misses me? Do you think he moved on? Do you think Sarge got what he wanted? Do you think they’ll never see me again?”

“Probablemente no.”

“Oh god, oh god, oh god. If they don’t… They’ll think I hate them forever! And that’s more time than oodles of time! That’s like three oodles! Is there any way to fix this? Fix… fics… fax… AH! Focus! Is there any way to fix this?”

“Pide perdón, idiota.”

“Sorry? Lopez! You’re fucking brilliant! Brilliant with a capital L! I gotta go say sorry to them right now!” Grif sprints off. The word replays in his mind over and over. Sorry, sorry, sorry! He needs to tell everyone sorry! He needs to tell Simmons he misses him and he loves him, he needs to tell Sarge he’s sorry, he needs to tell Tucker that he should’ve helped rescue Church… He could go on forever! Gah! 

_Ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh_

_It's your love I'm lost in_

_Your love I'm lost in_

_Your love I'm lost in_

_And I'm tired of being so exhausted_

Simmons waits in his cell. This is such _fucking bullshit_. There is no way that Temple was about to get away with killing so many innocent people. The message was going to get out there, and he was going to be fine. They were all going to be fine, like they always were. Right? It’s just a matter of waiting. Waiting for someone to get the message and come rescue them. Waiting for a miracle, because that’s all he can do these days. 

_Your love I'm lost in_

Grif, Simmons hopes as he slumps back against the cold walls. 

He hopes Grif is okay.

_Your love I'm lost in_

Simmons, Grif hopes as he boards Locus’s ship.

He hopes Simmons is alright.

_Your love I'm lost in_

They hope together.

_Even though I'm nothing to you now_

_Even though I'm nothing to you now_

Simmons decides that even though they aren’t together right now and Grif may very well hate him, he still wants closure when he gets out of this situation.

Grif decides that even though they aren’t together right now and Simmons may very well hate him for leaving or be dead, he still wants closure when this all blows over.

_There must be something in the water_

_'Cause everyday it's getting colder_

_And if only I could hold you_

_You'd keep my head from going under_

When Grif and Simmons get one on one time to talk, there are so many things that they need to tell each other that they don’t know where to start. At first, they’re both a little apprehensive. They expect each other to be angry. But then Grif volunteered to help and Simmons got excited. There were a lot of things that they needed to say to each other. 

“So,” Grif says as they walk behind Jax and Dylan, maintaining a slower pace as to have a more close conversation. “What have you guys been up to?”

“A whole ton of shit!” Simmons explains. “First, we landed on a horror planet. It was filled with snakes! Fucking. Snakes.”

“Did you faint like last time?”

“No! Of course not!”

“He totally did.” Jax intercepts.

“Dude!” 

Grif smiles smugly underneath his helmet. “Knew it. What next?”

“Well, we tracked the signal from that planet to Desert Gulch, which is kinda like Blood Gulch. And by kind of I mean an exact fucking replica. It was fucking insane! And we all had weird clones of ourselves there, so it made it even more unsettling, yknow?”

“Huh. No orange guy though, right?”

“Nope. I thought that was really weird too...”

“Guess I’m just special like that.”

Simmons rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Anyways, Temple said the UNSC were trying to kill us. We thought he was a good guy at first…”

“... But he wasn’t.” Grif finishes.

“No,” Simmons sighs. “Turns out he was just thirsting for bloody revenge.”

“Classic!” Jax chimes in.

“Bloody revenge for what again?” Grif says, ignoring the cameraman.

“For Freelancer. Something about them using us, destroying our lives. You know, the classic excuses you make in order to justify remarkable amounts of violence.”

Grif shrugs. “Eh. That stone’s already been turned. Water under the bridge.”

“That’s exactly what I said!”

“Yeah,” Jax says, looking between them with a newly found interest. People liked romance subplots, right? “Hey, can you two stand closer together?”

Grif and Simmons look at each other. “Uh, why?” 

“Jax.” Dylan scolds. “Let’s keep moving.”

_There must be something in the water_

_'Cause everyday it's getting colder_

_And if only I could hold you_

_You'd keep my head from going under_

After Grif shoots Gene, it all kind of falls into place. 

Simmons is nothing like Gene, and he can say that confidently now. 

In the end, he is not just a sum of his interests. He is Dick Simmons. He is defined by who he cares about, what conversations he’s had, what choices he’s made, and what experiences shaped him. Simmons isn’t Gene, because Simmons is much more than what he likes. And Grif knows that. Grif knows it because he knows Simmons. He knows who he cares about, what conversations they've had, and what choices he’s made. He knows the sacrifices. He knows what they’ve been through. So, Simmons can afford to be lazy. He can afford to lose a little of himself because he knows that’s not what makes him whole.

“Hey,” Simmons looks over at Grif as they walk further away from the lava ledge.

“Yeah?” He replies, tilting his head a little.

“That hate glue thing you were talking about? That was bullshit.” Simmons bites his tongue. He needs to say this. “You’re not hate glue, dude. We. We, uh. We kind of needed you.” _I kind of need you_. “I mean, you did save us.”

Grif stares at him a little bit and then his hands come up. Simmons is about to ask what he’s doing when the chubby fingers stop, gripping the sides of his helmet. He lifts and the helmet comes off. Grif’s hair is dark and messy. His eyes are round and tired. He’s still got that scar from the tank incident where half of Simmons is permanently etched into him. Simmons can feel the air leave his lungs. 

“Grif? Uh, what are you-?”

“Take off your helmet.”

Simmons pops off his helmet, revealing his half-cyborg face and auburn colored helmet hair. He probably looks disgusting right now. He looks down at Grif after a reasonable silence. His expression is unreadable. “Um, are you just going to stand there and stare at me or are you going to tell me wh-”

And that’s when they kiss. 

It’s not very good because Simmons is in the middle of a sentence and it’s not very long because they have to go find the others who are probably maybe in danger right now, but it’s a kiss nonetheless. Simmons finds himself kissing back after a few seconds, only for Grif to pull back. To say he’s disappointed is an understatement. Grif shoves his helmet back on quickly.

“Let’s go find our friends.” He says.

“Okay,” Simmons replies shakily. He almost sheds a tear as he plops his own helmet back on. There are too many things he’s feeling right now. He’s proud, he’s warm, he’s floating, he’s everything. He smiles genuinely. It feels like it’s been way too long since that last happened. “Let’s go! Let’s do this, Grif!” 

As they sprint down the halls to their inevitable confrontation, Simmons is content. Even if they never talk about that moment ever again, even if this is the last time that they share a kiss, even if they die soon… he’ll know that they love each other. 

It may not be conventional. 

It may not be spoken. 

Hell, it may not even be official.

But whatever it is they have, _it’s real._

And that’s what matters.

What makes them who they are is the bruises that they’ve left on each other, the decisions they’ve made together, and the friends that they’ve made along the way. And nothing - not space pirates, not dinosaurs, not evil clones, not even their own fucking selves - _nothing_ can take that away. 

Heroes aren’t born. 

They’re made.

_And that’s why Grimmons is canon._


End file.
